


Minding the Gaps

by Weshallc



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 03:28:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16210457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weshallc/pseuds/Weshallc
Summary: A series of stories exploring how my mind fills the gaps in the early Turnadette romance. They are not in time-line order and are complete single stories in themselves.





	1. Crossing the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This story is set on the afternoon following the engagement. An early Turner family outing.

She was determined not to reveal how breathless she actually was, she didn't want to spoil the boy's day. It had been his choice to come to Greenwich and he was excited to share everything he had learned in school with his recently restored friend.

She had watched him reach the summit of the hill in Greenwich Park. A good ten minutes before the stragglers of their small party of three would finally arrive. She had kept stopping on the steep incline to catch her breath. The boy's father had wanted her to turn back but she insisted she wanted to see the Old Royal Observatory close up. It was a warm day for late October and the recent mists that had hung over the last few days hadn't formed. She would have liked to admire the view and take in a large gulp of air, but the arm she had clung onto up the testing path ushered her to the nearest bench. The mild autumn weather had attracted a good Sunday crowd of tourists and Londoners alike. There wasn't really enough room for a fourth person on the bench, but he had insisted. She felt terribly embarrassed when the previous occupants an elderly couple, and what she presumed was their granddaughter, rose shortly after she was seated and politely reassured her they were fully rested and ready to move on.

A familiar excited voice broke through the crowds, "Aunty Shelagh, there you are, I want you to see this. Come on it's very important." He made a grab for her hand, but was intercepted quicker than a Bobby Moore tackle at Upton Park on a Saturday, by his dad.

"Timothy that is quite enough, we should never have followed you up here. This was a really terrible idea." Patrick's voice was tinged with panic and guilt.

"Nonsense," she responded so sharply that the two Turners who were about to do verbal battle had her full attention. She couldn't believe she had said it, almost shouted it. Since the telephone call from the sanatorium which was only a few days ago, but it seemed like a lifetime had past, everything had been so polite. Every word had been considered and so well thought out between them. Up until that moment.

She had never been afraid to speak her mind at the convent. She often had to keep the young nurses in-line, especially Nurse Franklin who when she saw a line couldn't help but flirt with the idea of crossing it.

She was more conscious of her manner with her sisters although Sister Monica Joan had been needing more direction of late. There were quite a few things she would have liked to have said to Sister Evangelina especially when she used to interrupt her teaching sessions, only in love of course. One person she had never dreamed of raising her voice to was Sister Julienne, the addition of her dearest friend and their too recent painful parting to her thoughts, chilled her for an instant.

He noticed the flicker of a shiver, she wasn't surprised he hadn't took his eyes off her for a fraction of a second all day. Before he produced a thermometer she thought she better continue. She was exhausted but her energy would certainly return with more haste than the boy's enthusiasm if dampened by the adults. She knew from experience that only children spend a large part of their time with people older than themselves, especially the motherless ones and it sometimes gets tiresome.

The urgency caught her off guard and it was said before she heard it herself.

"Doctor Turner, I do apologize for raising my voice in such a unseemly manner, but this is Timothy's day out and I for one think this is a most splendid location."

The shortness of breath must have caused a deficit of oxygen to her head she thought. Patrick, would she ever get used to his name, ten years was surely long enough to ingrain something in your brain and make it difficult to alter. She would never have dreamt of talking to him in such a way when he was just Dr Turner and also in front of his son, too.

The son was far too busy weighing up what had just occurred according to his ten-year-old reckoning. He came to the conclusion that when it came to differences of opinion with two people it's always one against the other. However, with three people it would now be two against one and maybe sometimes he would be on the side made up of two.

Patrick was staring at her with a look of bemusement. She wondered if anyone had ever contradicted him lately. She knew Sister Julienne had her own subtle ways of making her feelings known, if she felt some of the GP's new ideas made her feel uncomfortable. Sister Evangelina didn't stand on ceremony with anyone and was not afraid to tell Dr Turner when he had overstretched himself professionally, only in love of course.

But what about personally on private matters? Marianne had been gone nearly two years and had been very poorly before that. She had met Mrs Penny, the housekeeper, and didn't think she would be anything but courteous to the widower. Marianne's mother she had met at the funeral, but that would not be a good time to judge anyone's character. She recollected she had only seemed supportive of the two lost souls beside her and stoic in her own grief. Mrs Parker had not come across as opinionated or interfering.

Shelagh knew she could be brusk and she liked things done a certain way, her way. She had spent many hours on her knees at the convent asking for forgiveness and guidance concerning the virtues of obedience and humility. Even though in her final months of service other trials and temptations had become more pressing.

She had trained at the London and had been taught to treat the medical staff with the utmost respect, to never question and to speak only when spoken to, which wasn't very often. District practice was slightly different she had discovered. The more relaxed environment of the patient's home and the chaotic oversubscribed clinics held in church halls made everything a little less formal. It was rare in a hospital environment for just two people to work so closely together as often was the case in the community. Due to the differing levels of experience in matters of obstetrics, the midwives opinions were sought and valued more than their institutionalized colleagues. This was especially the case with newly qualified general practitioners, who may have the knowledge but not the experience.

Shelagh as Sister Bernadette had arrived at Nonnatus a newly qualified midwife only a couple of years after Dr Turner had took over the Kenilworth Row surgery. Both full of learning and eager to put it into practice, they had built their experience together. Dr Turner although not new to medicine was new to General Practice and maybe because he wasn't fresh faced and obviously not just out of medical school, he tended to throw new ideas or doubts at the young studious sister, rather than risk feeling judged under the gaze of her more established colleagues. The young nun was a little bit confused by this at first she had been taught to be seen and not heard during her training and recently had took a vow of of obedience. It took her awhile to realize he didn't just want her to nod at appropriate times. He wasn't being rhetorical at all, he was actually interested in what she thought.

She had never before considered how lonely a GP's life was, she had her sisters and the other midwives to discuss all manner of things with, well everything. There meal times were more than a welcome occasion to sustain the body, but the mind and soul too. They didn't just share their food but their knowledge, their concerns, their support. If Dr Turner needed to speak to another doctor he had to find one first. Another overworked GP in clinic or out on home visits. There was always the secondary tier, but she knew enough about medical politics that the consultants often looked down on the GP's for choosing a different career path. What was meant as a call for advice or reassurance could be seen as a referral and the patient completely taken out of his hands.

Once she realized this, Sister Bernadette saw it as a challenge, she got bolder in sharing her opinions. If she found her knowledge lacking she made damn sure she knew the answer if he ever asked that question again. She started to anticipate the kinds of cases he would want to discuss, if something unusual presented itself even at the early stages even as a possibility she was onto it. Almost willing him to ask her something in clinic. She started to feel betrayed if one of the other midwives found themselves assigned to a case she had spent so much time researching. She soon found she was quite adept at just inviting herself along or convincing the nurse that another pair of hands was needed, her hands. Soon it just became commonplace that she was given or asked to assist in the more complex cases. The cases that also required a doctor.

In all that time she had never raised her voice to him, in ten years of working closely together she had never obviously took the lead or contradicted him. He was fumbling in his pocket for something, probably the receipt for the engagement ring she thought, she hoped for his sake he had only bought it recently and the 28 days weren't up. She sighed as he brought out his cigarettes and lighter.

She watched Timothy run around what was now the Old Greenwich Royal Observatory since it's recent relocation to Sussex. Made necessary due to light pollution Tim had informed them as they had crossed the Thames on the Woolwich Ferry, another treat. His mind greedily connecting the information he had read in books with what his alert and busy senses were now perceiving, forming a reality. Patrick had sat down beside her. He had said nothing following her outburst apart from warning Timothy not to go too far. It was Shelagh who broke the silence,

"I am sorry about the way I spoke to you. Just it's been such a remarkable day and Timothy has been through so much. I understood why you presented my ring to me like you did and that's why I wanted him to choose what we did this afternoon. Once I realized I had you both all to myself for the rest of the day. I can be rather bold at times, Mother Jesu Emanuel did mention it when I was a postulant. I am sorry if I overstepped the mark earlier."

"Dad, Aunty Shelagh, over here," came an earnest shout.

"I think we better go," Patrick stubbed out his cigarette and deftly threw it into the nearby bin. He stood up and offered his hand to his new fiance, "If you are sufficiently recovered?"

She took his hand and rose to her feet, "I am quite well, thank you," and then unable to bare it any longer, "Patrick please, I know I was over familiar."

He turned quickly towards her the mischief that flashed across his dark eyes and the smile that lit up his entire face reassured her slightly, "Oh, I hope you will be a lot more familiar than that."

It was Shelagh's turn to be lost for words, she felt herself blush, she had thought she had mastered that particular unconscious response after having so much practice over the last year, but he had took her totally off guard.

That line Trixie had sometimes flirted with Shelagh had embraced it completely, she had jumped over it with both feet and she had to admit, she had no idea what to expect now she was on the other side of it.

"This is it," Timothy proclaimed in triumph. Shelagh and Patrick stared down at their feet at a strip of brass. The young lad proudly continued, "This is the prime merib.."

Patrick went to correct him but the hand that had been hanging loosely in his own increased in tension, making him think again.

Timothy continued, "Prime Meridian, this is the beginning of all time."

Patrick opened his mouth to speak and Shelagh squeezed extra hard this time, the diamond not quite central on her finger making him flinch.

Shelagh raised her right hand and offered it to Timothy and fixed a look at Patrick that convinced him to do the same with his left. Timothy took hers tentatively, holding Shelagh's hand was one thing, she had been poorly, proper poorly, but holding his dad's hand that was a bit much, he was ten after all. Shelagh gave a small cough and instinctively the boys took hold.

"So if the three of us are standing on this line, if I understand you correctly Timothy we are at the start of everything."

"Yes," beamed Timothy, finally a grown-up who listened. "Not just that, it's more than that, this line separates the East from the West, it's the place that two worlds meet. Here there is neither east nor west, everything is just one, it's all equal, all together."

Patrick's voice sounded slightly out of key, Shelagh had noticed long ago when he became passionate about anything, his Merseyside roots became more obvious. This was one of those times.

"So I guess this is the perfect place for the three of us to make a start." he whispered

"Yes," said Timothy looking nervously at his dad. He had seen so many emotions flow through his father, since his mother had died and in the last few days since Sister had become Shelagh and this looked like another one.

"Can we let go now, people are staring." The adults started laughing which only drew more attention their way, but thankfully they did let go of his hands, if not each others he noticed. He wasted no time running off down the hill towards the National Maritime Museum.


	2. A Full Scottish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a separate story, (but maybe just a few days after Greenwich).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading my first offering. I know some of you will be familiar with these fics, but there will be more original work to come.

He didn't really know why he did it, he knew it was pointless. He always got the same answer.

"No, it's very kind of you Dr Turner. I have my bicycle, but thank you very much, for your offer of a lift." This time the weary smile was worn by Nurse Lee.

It didn't matter which one he asked. Flirty Nurse Franklin, thoughtful Nurse Miller, indomitable Sister Evangelina. The answer was always a polite decline of his generosity.

He had a habit of asking every time he and an exhausted midwife stepped into a poorly lit Poplar street, after delivering yet another Eastender into the world. Even though the church bells that marked the ungodly hour of the child's birth, were All Saints' not Bow.

They always refused and before he had even climbed into his MG, they had left him for dust. He knew he asked one midwife slightly more often than the others. Her "no" seemed to linger that bit longer in the chill of the night air. It would taunt him as he watched her pedal, heaven for leather, back to the convent.

That was until a few days ago, when there wasn't any refusal of his offer of a lift. When he thought about it, she had almost asked to be driven home. If he hadn't been taken so by surprise, by the call, things could have been a lot less frantic. The one who had never let him as much as carry her nurses’ bag, without hesitation let him pick up her two suitcases. Recently abandoned on the road and place them in the boot of his car.

He could still hardly believe it and everything that had happened since. A drive back to Poplar with an excited, over talkative, questioning Timothy. Then not quite knowing how to comfort her when she came to him after renouncing her vows. An awkward supper of fish and chips, when his son wasn't shy in asking, "Why are we using plates and knives and forks?" When they usually ate them with their fingers from the newspaper.

The silent drive to her new lodgings and watching her walk nervously through the door, desperate to tell her it was only temporary and not finding the words. On returning home trying to find different words. Simple words to explain such a grown-up thing to a child, who had only lost his mother at the beginning of last year. A child who had been required to understand so many grown-up things already.

Then there had been that feeling of absolute terror, stood in the parish hall kitchen waiting for her. Suddenly wondering why he had picked such an unromantic place for a marriage proposal. Who proposes at work? Then seeing her face and knowing she understood.

It was early Tuesday morning and he had just over an hour to bathe, change and shave, not enough time to sleep. He would then wake Timothy, back at school after 'tatie-picking' half-term week. Fortunately, the lad was very independent, he would get himself up and dressed and ready for school. Patrick had been on his feet all night and he had worked up quite an appetite. He would treat himself and his son to a bacon sandwich. The cornflakes could stay in their packet this morning with the giant cockerel to guard them.

If he was lucky and he often wasn't, he might be able to find the time for lunch. He would have an idea towards the end of morning surgery, if it was worth ringing his intended to arrange a quick meeting. Prior to heading off to the parish hall, with a lot less anticipation than a few days ago.

He opened the door to the Kenilworth Row flat, he really should take more care to ensure he locked it. Rushing out in the middle of the night, leaving Timothy on his own, he should be more diligent. He thought he had, it was completely careless. His self chastisement was interrupted by an assault on his senses. The warm inviting aroma of freshly cooked bacon hit him, as soon as he closed the outside door behind him.

Patrick felt elated and ashamed all in the same heartbeat. Timothy wasn't yet eleven, but was already up far too early for school and making him breakfast. As he climbed closer to the top of the stairs he could hear the sublime sound of sausages sizzling in a pan. That wasn't the only sound, there was music. Tim must have put on the wireless for company.

Opening the inner door to the flat he heard the song more clearly. It was a song from a musical picture he and Marianne had seen a few years ago. Timothy had watched it one Saturday afternoon on the telly with him. He had complained it was a girls’ film, but sat right until the end, all the same. The American movie star's voice was obliterated by two others, one instantly recognisable as his sons, a little off key and singing the words a beat after Miss Day. The other voice was clear and confident of the words and the tune.

"Just how wonderful you are and why I am so in love with you," sang the soprano fading a little at the "so in love" part.

Suddenly the altar boy's voice blasted out at full tilt, " Nowww! I shout it from the..." that was as far as he got.

The radio was drowned out by the kitchen choir turning into a mass of unruly giggling.

Patrick couldn't really comprehend what he had just heard. When he looked into the kitchen, his kitchen, he thought it wasn't just his ears that were playing tricks, but his eyes too.

His son was in his striped pyjamas, trying to butter several slices of toast, while still giggling uncontrollably. Next to him stood Shelagh, cracking eggs into a frying pan. Her face was rosey pink with the heat of the kitchen and the exertion of laughing. They were both still trying to follow the song, but had given up on the words. They were making clippety-clop, horses hoof type noises, using their tongues against the roofs of the their mouths. Both were failing spectacularly to keep in time with the beat.

Patrick noticed she wiped a tear from her eye with her left hand and he saw the solitary expression of his love sparkle. It was almost teasing him, he so wanted to go and join in the fun. Yet, Shelagh was still shy with him, even though she had agreed to be his wife. The cooks were so at ease with one another, he felt his sudden addition to the group would only add confusion.

Neither had heard him enter, due to Doris and the calamitous singing-come-laughing. So he stood and watched as his boy and his fiancée put the breakfast together making ridiculous childish noises at each other. It all added up to the most wonderful music he had ever heard.

The song ended and the stuffy BBC announcer started talking. Shelagh stopped abruptly. Tim was busy getting the utensils out of the draw. Patrick noticed she was completely still and looking straight ahead of her just below the eye-level grill. Something made him nervous, he unconsciously started rubbing his thumb and index finger together. He had seen her become still like this, too many times before.

Her head turned slowly towards him, at first there was no flicker of expression on her face and then a smile blossomed and her eyes lit up. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but...

"Aunty Shelagh came round to help me get ready for school, so we decided to make breakfast. She was on her way back from church and saw that your car was missing, wasn't that nice of her?" Tim had spotted his father.

Patrick was listening to his son but his eyes had never left Shelagh's smile.

"That was very nice of her indeed," was all he could manage, aware that a ridiculous corresponding smile was enveloping his features.

"Good Morning Patrick," was the only explanation she was ready to offer, in a manner that in any other woman, he would have judged as slightly coy.

Timothy looked at them both, picked up one of the now full plates, "I am starving can we eat now?"

He was a well brought up boy, but he didn't wait for permission to be granted. He warned the adults in the kitchen their breakfasts were getting cold, but there was no response. He was too busy slapping the bottom of the tomato sauce bottle to dislodge the stubborn remnants of condiment to care.


	3. Two Types of Stuffing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The working title for this was "Farty Turnadette" and then it became what it is, which is probably worse. It may get a proper title one day.  
> Set at Christmas 1957 at Nonnatus, my first ever story really, "The Last Temptation of Tom Hereward" was the first one I finished, but this had been in my head a long time. Merry Christmas.

Patrick Turner glanced over his shoulder once again. He looked longingly beyond the dining room door. He knew that staring repeatedly in the direction of the Nonnatus telephone, was not going to make it ring, but he couldn't seem to help himself.

He turned back to the table and suddenly felt ashamed. He was positive everyone knew what he was hoping for. Timothy sat to his left, he certainly knew, he could see it in the boy's eyes. He had grown up so much, in such a relatively short time. Wise beyond his years. Honed through the illness and eventual loss of his mother. Followed by almost a year of what? Grief, struggle, survival? Patrick tried to shake himself from his melancholy and self destructive thoughts. He was so proud of Marianne's son, sat in his best tie and blazer.

The boy was animatedly talking to Sister Evangelina. He was glad Sister Julienne had sat Timothy between himself and the bustling nun. She was never short of conversation and had a soft spot for his son, as she also once had for the boy's mother.

Opposite the doctor sat three of the young nurses, he worked with on a daily basis. Nurse Franklin was dressed a little bit like she was having Christmas dinner at the Ritz, but he though she carried it off. Nurse Lee a little less flashy, he could see Marianne in something like that. He knew the more diminutive Nurse Miller would also be wearing a new dress. Marianne always insisted a woman needed a new dress for Christmas Day, apart from last year, last Christmas she asked for a new nightdress.

Absentmindedly he glanced again in the direction of the still frustratingly silent telephone. What was wrong with him? He had accepted this kind invitation for Timothy's sake. Granny Parker always spent Christmas with Timothy's cousins in Liverpool and he hadn't wanted her to change her plans, there had been too much change. He had to snap out of this wave of self pity.

_Please let the next call be a woman in labour, possibly breech or twins. A safe, but long labour, but get me out of here please! Let no harm come too anyone, just free me from this odious obligation. Timothy is in good, safe hands. No need to feel guilty or selfish, is there?_

"Would you care for some more stuffing, Doctor?"

The sudden question directed to him in a warm Scottish lilt, shook him out of his malaise.

"No,no thank you Sister, I have ample."

"Mrs B has dared to be a tad adventurous this year and made two types of stuffing. I must say Dr Turner, I prefer the traditional sage and onion myself."

"I wasn't aware Sister, until today that there was more than one type of stuffing." He interjected, trying to crack a weak joke. _The poor girl, what had she done to be sat next to such a miserable, boring old sod at Christmas._

Patrick chastised himself internally. He looked around the table, the nurses sat together and whispered and chatted. Although Trixie couldn't be accused of whispering at present.

Sister Evangelina sat next to Timothy, the pair gently trying to heal each other's wounds. Sister Julienne at the head of the table as her position allowed, watching over her family, with a careful eye on Sister Monica Joan at the other end. Poor kind hearted, devoted Sister Bernadette had got the fuzzy end of the lollipop, when it came to the seating plan and was stuck next to him.

"More wine Doctor? I must say Constable and Mrs Noakes have been very generous in supplying us with beverages, before they decided to spend Christmas with Constable Noakes' mother."

"Erm, not much more for me Sister, I know Dr Enys is on call. Which is very kind of him, in the circumstances."

They both glance at Timothy. The boy takes a good slurp of his Dandelion and Burdock, another treat from the Noakes'. Sister Bernadette starts to wonder if the Fortescue-Cholmondeley-Browne empire has been built on off-licenses.

Patrick continues, "He is a fine young GP, but I did say I would be available, if you know…he gets snowed under, or may need my guidance in a complicated maternity case. I gave him this number and told him not to hesitate to call…" He was interrupted,

"I see, Doctor."

Patrick looked at those piercing blue eyes. Oh yes, even as a very happily married man and devoted husband, he noticed the blue eyes. Even when she was a 22 year old postulant and he an enthusiastic new father and war veteran, he noticed the blue blue eyes. They saw right through him at that moment, the blue eyes knew he would rather be tending to a bad case of haemorrhoids than pulling a Christmas cracker, containing a very bad joke, with an increasingly giggly Trixie.

Sister Bernadette glanced behind her once again, looking longingly beyond the dining room door. She knew that staring repeatedly in the direction of the Nonnatus telephone, was not going to make it ring, but she couldn't seem to help herself.

The Nonnatuns took turns on Christmas Day to be on call. Sister Julienne always attended the first call. Sister Evangelina the next, Sister Bernadette followed and quite often that order would repeat itself throughout the day. The Sisters understood that Christmas may have a different interpretation for their young colleagues and they would want to mark it in a different way.

It had been Sister Bernadette a few years younger than the others, that had suggested that they took the strain over Christmas and New Year. To serve Him and to have the privilege of delivering a Christmas or New Year baby. Also young enough and generous enough to realize her secular colleagues would greatly appreciate any time off during the holidays.

At this moment Sister Bernadette wasn't contemplating such noble thoughts. Basically she just wanted to get the Hell out of there. Alone in the work environment between the forceps and cursing mothers, she could ask him how Timothy was doing? How he was coping? Here it had to be so polite, so appropriate, she could see he was struggling for breath, for cover, for safety. All she could do in this situation was talk about stuffing.

She needed that phone to ring, this was stifling. _Please let the next call be a woman in labour, a very long simple, safe labour, but get me out of here please! Let no harm come to is too anyone, this is too painful and there is so little I can offer in way of comfort._

Relief finally! Just as the plum pudding and brandy sauce was being served-again thanks to Chummy.

 **Dring,dring,dring**! Sister Bernadette and Dr Turner nearly knocked each other over in their urgency to answer the blasted thing. However while the pair of them were untangling chair legs and actually getting themselves more entwined. Sister Julienne beat them to it.

Patrick took a deep breath. _Nothing too bad, too cruel on Christmas Day, but something, maybe a lonely old pensioner, just needs some company._

Sister Bernadette took a deep breath. _Nothing too bad, a multiple birth, twins, that would take time and be joyous._

Sister Julienne answered, "Mother Jesu Emanuel, Merry Christmas."

Dr Turner and Sister Bernadette returned to their seats and looked their plum pudding square in the face. Silently and slightly sullenly the pair focused on their dessert and rather rich sauce. Suddenly they both dropped their spoons, in response to a rather loud noise.

No this wasn't the telephone, but rather a call of a different nature. With its very own calling card, a rather pungent odour. Someone was suffering from a bout of flatulence.

Dr Turner immediately swivelled in his chair and glared at his son. Timothy who was obviously well aware of why his father was glaring at him, was shaking his head furiously and mouthing, "Not Me," at his dad.

Dr Turner flicked his eyes from his wide-eyed son to the rest of the dining party. They incredibly continued chatting as normal and quite loudly, especially Trixie. He didn't mind, it was nice to see the young nurse enjoying herself and letting her hair down, she was a grafter, she deserved it. But the smell! Well they were nurses after all, probably immune.

He was just about to admonish Timothy again, when he felt a tug on his sleeve.

What was she going to say?

Not only had she had to endure Christmas dinner with the dullest man on Earth. Unfortunately they sat only inches apart. She must have just had the same experience as him. His mind was racing, now what must she think?

He turned his head slowly in response to the sleeve tug. The first thing he noticed, was the pale almost opaque skin of Sister Bernadette was pink, very pink indeed. She had a rosy glow across her cheeks. Her eyes, those blue eyes, were throwing off a light show only he could see. When he was able to tear his eyes away from those northern lights, he noticed she was biting her bottom lip and seemed to be shivering.

Suddenly she was able to release her bottom lip for a moment and mouth to him,"Not Timothy." She cast a glance down the table past Timothy. Patrick's eyes followed and so did his son's and the colour returned to Tim's cheeks. Relieved he was off the hook and also because, he wouldn't have to be the one to drop his dining companion in it.

Patrick now aware that he and his family had not disgraced themselves, looked back at Sister Bernadette. Who now seemed to be steadying herself, with her left hand firmly attached to the seat of her chair. Still pink, still quivering. She was in hysterics, silent, hidden hysterics. Trying for the life of her to not show it. He could only be about nine inches away from her. For the first time since Patrick Turner had walked through those convent doors that morning, a genuine ghost of a smile crossed his face.

He looked at her, really looked at her, maybe for the first time. She was pretty. Well yes, he knew that, but at this moment, she was simply radiant. She was sat only a few inches away shuddering with joy, trying to suppress an almighty laugh. In almost ten years of working with her, she had always been so proper, always been so professional, always been so self controlled. Right now Sister Bernadette's control was slipping.

This was much more enticing than two types of stuffing. He was that close. He didn't sit him there-that was Sister Julienne's doing-he didn't even want to be there. Did he?

"You know if you hold onto that chair much harder, you are going to break it."

He was close enough, just for only her to hear the soft whisper in her ear. The rose pink turned to scarlet, not just across her cheeks but also down her neck, her shivering turned to a gentle rocking. He knew he should stop, of course he knew….

"If you bite that lip any harder, you might need me to take a look at that."

He didn't quite get the reaction he was looking for. Her head turned to face him, chin-up and she stared straight into his eyes-blue into green.

"Best behaviour please, Doctor." She managed to squeak through gritted teeth.

It was at that point Sister Evangelina's battle with the sprouts came to its climax. Dr Turner and Sister Bernadette were somehow in suspended animation. The game had suddenly changed, they both knew the one to take their eyes away from the other, would be the first one to break into fits of laughter.

Sister Bernadette found herself grasping the chair harder and Dr Turner found he was doing the same thing. Meanwhile Timothy was making the adults to his right, look like primary school children. Hardly batting an eye or losing track in his conversation with his table mate. While she remained as unnerved as ever.

Suddenly the stalemate was broken. Trixie trying to relate a story to a less than attentive Jenny, resorted in wild hand gestures and in doing so knocked over her wine glass. Fortunately or unfortunately depending on how you looked at it, it was only half full.

For the first time the table hushed and focused on one person, well almost everyone that is. Dr Turner and Sister Bernadette eyes flicked to Trixie and then back at each other. Not wanting the now mortally embarrassed nurse, to think they were laughing at her, they hung on to their self control.

The tables focus soon moved to another, when Sister Monica Joan,suddenly exclaimed out of nowhere. "Not only have I been subjected to a stench that would only be outdone by Vesuvius in eruption. Now, that inebriated young woman has just shed her wine all over the mince pies!"

The awkward silence that followed was broken by a sudden loud girlish giggle, that had lost any hope of censure and a deep masculine laugh, that had been begging for air, for too long. An eyebrow or two were raised in the direction of the ridiculous hilarity, but it was fleeting. The release of the built up tension in the pair seemed to influence everyone. Permission had been given for everyone to forgive, relax, smile and carry on and to clear up the mess.

Timothy took on the responsibility of rescuing the mince pies. Relieved that a reason to be excused from the table, had finally presented itself. What no-one else did see, was that on Sister Monica Joan's outburst, Sister Bernadette's resistance finally broke. She lost all control and could no longer contain the mirth mounting up within herself. Feeling unnerved and unbalanced, she felt unstable in her chair and grabbed the nearest thing available to steady herself. It wasn't until she required her left hand to help her remove her glasses and dry her tear stained eyes. That she became aware, that what she was using to steady herself, was in fact the doctor's leg. Just above the knee.

The one thing she was never able to comprehend, not then, not later that same night, not even in the sanatorium was…Why before removing her hand from the doctor's leg? Did she first look left, to see if Timothy had noticed and then look right, to see if Sister Julienne had noticed. It was only when, she was finally certain that neither had noticed, did she then and only then, remove her hand from its inappropriate mooring.

As people stood to clear the table, the was one person Sister Bernadette was definitely not going to look at. Even though she knew he was looking at her. Sister Bernadette had been searching all night for something to quell her school girl giggles and now she had found it. Grabbing the doctor's knee in the possible full view of his son and her superior certainly did the trick. She had found her cure.

Sister Bernadette's back stiffened, her demeanour changed. She rose steadily from her chair. "Excuse me, Dr Turner," she said without a hint of a smile, eyes completely focused on his shoulder.

"Of course," he replied with just a hint of amusement, which she chose to ignore. She knew he was watching her walk through to the kitchen, but she wouldn't look back, she would never catch herself looking back for him. She remembered this silent promise, ten months later on a misty road in the Essex countryside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did borrow a locum from Cornwall.


End file.
